


Extra, extra!

by littlebitofsky



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, New York City, angsty!Clarke, badass!lexa, newsboy AU, sassy!Raven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebitofsky/pseuds/littlebitofsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Read all about it! Three dead in carriage collision!”<br/>“Calamitous events on Brooklyn Bridge! Three dead! Extra, extra!”<br/>“Awful occurrence! Read all about it!”</p>
<p>She quickly settles into her routine of cycling through headlines, stepping up to businessmen and waving the papers in their faces.  At this time in the morning she does a roaring trade. It’s a whirl of activity, shrieking and hawking, pestering and nagging, all the while slipping pennies into the cloth bag she keeps strapped to her side, under her jacket. Her bare feet are grubby and aching by the time the morning rush dies down.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>The Newsboy AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra, extra!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Clexa fic! I've had the idea stuck in my head for months but only just got round to actually getting it down.
> 
> Just a warning: although I've done a bit of research, this fic isn't intended to be historically accurate. I'm also British and have never been to New York lol. And the characters use a bit of slang from the time at which it's set - hopefully it makes sense but let me know if not!
> 
> Inspired 100% by this photo: http://66.media.tumblr.com/5b524c1660239bbe88b7c6ea6e6b206f/tumblr_nnndm8sjiM1rryqqpo1_r1_540.png

_“Extra, extra!”_

Clarke pulls her cap down firmly over her eyes and steps out of her side alley into the bustling street. The morning air is crisp and autumnal, her breath crystallising as puffs of white fog as she strides along to the corner she’s claimed as her own. On the skyline the first rays of sunlight are cracking open the dawn, curling out from behind the towering buildings. The sky is only barely awake, but New York is already humming with activity.

She glances at the top paper on the pile tucked under her arm. _Three dead in carriage collision_ , reads the headline in black and smudgy ink. It’s the fifth collision this month. Still, it makes a cracking story to sell. She pulls the paper off the stack and eyes it carefully. She’s lucky that she can read – the younger kids in the crew rely on her telling them the details of the story, else they’d have no idea what they were selling.

_“Read all about it! Three dead in carriage collision!”_

_“Calamitous events on Brooklyn Bridge! Three dead! Extra, extra!”_

_“Awful occurrence! Read all about it!”_

She quickly settles into her routine of cycling through headlines, stepping up to businessmen and waving the papers in their faces.  At this time in the morning she does a roaring trade. It’s a whirl of activity, shrieking and hawking, pestering and nagging, all the while slipping pennies into the cloth bag she keeps strapped to her side, under her jacket. Her bare feet are grubby and aching by the time the morning rush dies down.

The sun has risen and the street is mostly empty when she strings up her remaining papers and trudges along to catch up with her gang of littles. Energetic and cheeky, they hawk the roadways and the squares, sprinting to keep up with the horse-drawn carriages and peer inside, touting their wares. In many ways she envies them. They’re young enough to be brazen without fear of reprimand, and fresh enough to treat the whole thing like a game.

Today she arrives at the square to a typical scene. All three of them are hanging off the side of a small carriage, shouting and screeching the headlines to the sky. The couple inside the carriage appear most displeased with the whole event, but at last the man’s moustache twitches and he reaches into his wallet. Once the littles have been paid off, a once-crisp note now crumpled and grimy in each of their pockets, they hop off the side of the wagon and run away. A newspaper is tossed as a last minute thought into the lap of the shocked-looking woman.

Clarke smiles. A classic stunt, one she’s pulled off herself many times. The three boys almost tumble past her, all foul language and ruddy cheeks, but she collars them easily.

“Hoy, kiddos.”

“Miss Clarke,” gasps one of them – Charlie, the youngest. He has blonde hair and a cheeky grin.

“Don’t call her _miss_ ,” one of the others hisses. “She don’t want people knowin’ she’s a girl.”

Clarke touches her cap self-consciously. Her blonde hair is tucked up inside it and she always wears it low on her brow, casting shadow over her face. Her clothes are worn but functional: a shirt, breeches and a large overcoat. As long as she talks gruff and keeps a low profile, there’s no reason for anyone to suspect she’s not just another boy.

“How’s it going?” she asks. “Show me what you’ve made today.” She’s presented with a collection of sticky coins, mostly pennies and nickels, and a few dollar bills. It’s not bad takings, for a bunch of six- and seven-year olds. “That’s real swell, boys. Keep it up.”

They pour the money into her pouch and take off again, off to pester some more passers-by. She watches them, hands on hips, noting how Charlie struggles to keep up with the rough and tumble of the older boys. He’s probably five and small for his age, little arms and legs pumping in an attempt to keep pace. Something inside her softens when Art, the oldest, stops and scoops Charlie up onto his back before carrying on.

The next leg on her circuit is longer, leading her deeper into the industrial portion of New York. Buildings get grimier and sootier, more ramshackle. The air gets thicker, hotter, an acrid mixture of smog and decay. She follows a twisting maze of streets home to the alleyway that she and her crew have claimed as their own. There she finds Raven frowning at a greasy rag. On it is an assortment of cogs, fittings, gears and studs, some of which have been skilfully built into a tiny contraption. She’s tucked into the corner under some steps, out of sight, and when Clarke approaches her shadow falls across Raven’s work.

“Clarke,” Raven says without looking up. Her brow furrows and then she makes a little noise of excitement, picking out a tiny gear and slotting it in place. Only then does she look up.

“Hi, Ray,” Clarke says with a smile. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Just checking in.”

“S’been quiet all morning.”

Clarke peers past her friend at a lump covered by a rag.  “How’s Nico?”

“Not so good. Coughed for a bit but other than that he’s been out cold. His fever’s been racing too.” Raven meets her eye with a worried expression. “Might we lose him?”

“Yes. We might.” There’s no way to lie about it. She sidesteps Raven and her little workshop in order to crawl under the steps and check on Nico. His breathing is shallow and gurgling; when she places her cheek closer to his mouth she can barely feel it at all. She can’t see him very well in the gloom but she knows that he’s pale and clammy, skin stretched tight over gaunt cheekbones. He’s not long for this world.

She strokes his hair gently and pulls up the rag to tuck it under his chin. An urge to bundle him up in her arms and hold him close overwhelms her and she feels breathless for a moment, tears hot and pricking behind her eyes. She waits for the feeling to subside before she backs out of the hiding place into the balmy fall air.

“What do you think?” Raven asks. Her downcast face and haunted eyes tell Clarke that she knows the answer: it would take a miracle to save the kid now. He’s going to die and join the hundreds of other street urchins who lose their battle to starvation, illness and cold on the streets on New York every year. God knows that Clarke’s seen enough of them.

She doesn’t answer, just gives Raven a meaningful look before gathering up her papers and slinging them over her shoulder. “Gotta head out for the lunchtime frenzy, Ray. The littles might be back later – tell them if they want dinner they’ll have to find it themselves.”

“They love bin-diving,” Raven snorts. “Rather them than me.”

Clarke pauses halfway down the alley. “Take care, Raven.”

“You too, Clarke.” It’s the only form of sentimentality they’ll allow themselves during the day, when it’s all business and the weight of their responsibilities is almost too much to bear.

The afternoon passes in a blur. As the shadows lengthen and the sun drops back behind the horizon, Clarke is relieved to find her pile of newspapers lightening. By the time she’s hawked away the final one- to a bearded old gentleman with a cane and a slightly repulsed sneer- the streetlamps are lit and there’s a distinct chill in the air. She shivers. It’s going to be a long night.

She hurries back through the maze of backstreets to the alleyway she calls home, tugging her overcoat more tightly round her. It’s dangerous to be alone at this time, but she has no choice. The shadows jump out at her, ragged and monstrous, mocking her. Heavy footsteps behind her make her tense, pausing in her tracks, but it’s just a restaurant owner taking out the trash.

She rounds the next corner, breathing a quiet prayer of thanks, and slams into something warm and solid. A large hand claps down on her shoulder, its thick fingers grimy and bloated. “Alone?” a voice sneers.

Clarke reacts instinctually, lashing out and driving her knee upwards into her attacker’s groin. Unfortunately she’s easily outmanoeuvred, those big hands pushing her against the rough brick wall as if she’s paper-light. It’s embarrassing, really, how easily she’s cornered.

“Alone?” the man demands again. He has a thick black beard, matted and greasy. He leans down and puts his mouth to Clarke’s ear. His breath curls across her cheek. It smells like sour milk. “A nice strong boy like you, I could be looking at a hundred dollars.”

Clarke doesn’t bother correcting him. As a girl she’d be even more valuable to the pimps and factory owners who pay creeps like Greasy Beard to ‘recruit’ children off the streets. She struggles, legs kicking desperately, but he’s easily six foot and built like a gorilla. She doesn’t stand a chance.

“Hey!” A voice sounds from down the alleyway and Greasy Beard rears up, confused. Clarke doesn’t even have time to wriggle away before he’s floored by an extraordinary punch to the temple. He crumples up and slams to the floor, out cold. Clarke looks up into the face of her rescuer gratefully. It’s- a girl?

A girl, with her long hair braided down her back, cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Her face is haughty and regal, impassive as she regards Clarke coolly. Clarke can only gape back.

“I believe thanks are in order?” she says after a moment, when Clarke remains silent. Her voice is slightly accented, to match her olive skin.

Clarke snaps out of it. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I would have… I was taken by surprise.”

The girl nudges Greasy Beard with her foot. “Lowlife vermin,” she spits. “Selling children.”

“I’m not a child,” Clarke finds herself protesting. The girl looks at her levelly and she trails off. “I mean… thank you. That punch was a real sockwallager.” Even as she says it she cringes. _Sockwallager?_ It’s the kind of word her littles would use to describe a punch.

“I know,” is her only response. A beat of silence, and then-“You have a crew, I’m sure.”

“Yes.” Clarke resists the urge to stand up straight and salute this mystery girl. Once again she finds herself staring. Forest green eyes make her dizzy and those soft pillowy lips are moving…

“…trust you to get back safely,” the girl is saying. Clarke tears her eyes from her face and nods, her cheeks heating up. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Clarke whispers, and then she’s alone in the shadows once more.

Back at the alleyway, most of her crew already asleep, Clarke hooks her leg round Raven’s good one, pulling her closer. It’s cold, and they need to share body heat – that’s the excuse, anyway.

“What’s eating you?” Raven asks. Her whispered breath puffs against Clarke’s neck.

“Nothing.” Clarke sighs. “Just feelin’ cold.” _And lonely_ , she adds in her head.

Raven just nods; a calloused hand wriggles its way between their bodies to clutch at her own, fingers twining together. They settle into a content silence. There’s a warmth that seems to swell and grow inside Clarke, filling her in a heavy, comfortable way, and it’s more than just residual heat from the snuffed-out gas lamp. For this one, tiny moment, she feels safe.

She falls asleep dreaming of green eyes, dizzying and haunting, and a mane of dark, braided hair. She won’t remember when she wakes up.


End file.
